


So Much

by Elvendork



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Funeral, Gen, Paternal Douglas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If their positions were reversed, Douglas would know exactly what to say. Martin does not, but struggles through regardless and finds comfort from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much

**Author's Note:**

> Named for the Newton Faulkner song, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNHmXJwqO6w). 
> 
> I was _actually_ trying to write something to cheer myself up after a return of the End-of-CP-Feels, but it didn't quite work out like that.
> 
> Note for anyone who doesn't know: John Finnemore has confirmed on Twitter that Douglas has two daughters and that the older one is called Verity. I borrowed an apparently popular fan choice which I quite like for the younger.

Martin feels sick. He looks at the sea of grieving faces before him, blurred for the most part into one indistinguishable mass, recognises maybe only four or five – and he feels sick.

He can see Arthur, cheeks shining with tears; Carolyn, holding Herc’s hand and pretending not to, tight-lipped but dry-eyed for now; Hercules himself, sombre, sincere – _old_.

They knew each other at Air England, Martin remembers; knew each other as young, healthy men with the world at their feet – young, healthy men whose shadows are now barely visible in Herc’s haunted, tired eyes.

It should be Herc up here.

_Douglas wouldn’t like that._

It should be Herc making this speech.

 _Douglas_ really _wouldn’t like that._

He would do so much better at this than Martin, though.

And Douglas – if their positions were reversed, Douglas would know exactly what to say.

Martin isn’t good with words, with _people_ , he can’t – he isn’t – he isn’t _him_.

He isn’t Douglas.

Even Douglas isn’t Douglas anymore.

The room swims before him, and Martin barely manages to hold back the sob of despair building in his chest.

He looks down at the cards in his hands. The words wriggle around and rearrange themselves before he eyes; he can’t focus on them; they don’t make any _sense_.

They are all waiting.

He has to say _something_. Anything. He opens his mouth, and says the only thing that _does_ make sense, the only thing he understands at the moment.

‘Douglas,’ he begins. His voice cracks. He stops, swallows, closes his eyes. Deep breaths. ‘Douglas was…’ he tries again, and trails away. Verity is looking at him. She has her father’s eyes. The resemblance _hurts_ even though Martin has never seen – never saw – that expression on Douglas’s face, or anything close. And yet, even as it threatens to break him down again (this morning, at home, gasping and crying and _he can’t do this_ , he can’t –), it gives him strength.

‘Douglas Richardson was a lot of things,’ he manages in a clear, carrying voice. He takes another steadying breath and shuffles the cards, even though he isn’t really reading from them. ‘He was –’ He breaks off and Verity gives him a shaky, encouraging smile. Her arm is around her younger sister’s shoulder. ‘Okay, look. I – I had a lot of things I was going to say.’ He takes one last look at the foremost card then gives a miniscule shake of his head and tucks them into his jacket pocket. ‘I was going to talk about – about what a good… brilliant pilot he was.’ He manages to look at Arthur when he says this, and neither of them can bring themselves to smile but there is almost a lightness in their eyes – a single glorious moment of shared memories that no one else here is privy to, not even Carolyn, not in full.

‘He could play the piano. And – and he was good with words. Better than me.’ A bitter, self-deprecating laugh, which echoes feebly throughout the gathered crowd. ‘He could speak French. He always had ideas to solve – everything, and – look, the point is… he was… good at a lot of things. I was going to talk about all those things, but – you all know them already.’ He meets Verity’s eyes, and manages to hold them momentarily. ‘He knew he was good at them, he knew he was – he relied on luck a lot of the time, because… he knew… he thought it would be enough. It usually was. He took – stupid risks, and –’ His words are jerky and halting; he has to keep taking quick, sharp breaths to stop his voice from breaking, but he is at least loud enough to hear. ‘He was always… He was always confident it would work out. It was infuriating.’ Another laugh, or at least a sort of gasping sound that approaches a laugh. He pauses, and the thought that weaves its way from the very back of his mind to his lips without much time for consideration isn’t one he has ever consciously acknowledged before. It doesn’t feel sudden though. It feels like something that has been there a long time, just waiting for the right moment to surface.

Why does it have to surface _now_?

‘There was one thing he _didn’t_ think he was very good at though, and I never really realised it until now.’ He stops to gather himself again. He wants to do this _right_ , but he doesn’t really think there _is_ a right way to do it, and the only person he would trust to know it if there was is – is – well. Is why they’re here in the first place. The breath he takes now is his biggest yet, and – not really intentionally – his gaze is fixed steadily on Douglas’s daughters, clinging to each other for support and weeping not-quite-silently. ‘He didn’t think he was a very good father.’ Several people shift uncomfortably at this – it isn’t what they were expecting. It isn’t what _Martin_ was expecting, to be honest. Verity’s eyes widen with shock and hurt; Emily’s are tightly closed, and she doesn’t seem to be listening anyway.

‘He was wrong,’ Martin says.

There is a slight release in the tension; almost – _almost_ – a sigh of relief. Martin’s hands are shaking. He balls them into fists, releases them, clasps them together – he doesn’t know what to do with them. His arms suddenly feel awkward, overlarge and inconvenient. He shifts his feet uncomfortably. His eyes dart down to the floor, back up again, sweep the room – fix on Carolyn, whose lip is quivering. He blinks and looks away as though he has witnessed something personal, private – it feels like he has. He looks instead to Arthur, and then across his own empty seat back towards Douglas’s daughters.

‘He never said – look, I just – the point is, it’s just something I’ve realised. It was the one thing I don’t think he was confident with, and at the same time I think it was probably the most important thing to him, so – so – yeah. I… I wish I’d realised sooner. Because,’ his voice is stronger now, his confidence growing as he warms – or at the very least _settles_ to the topic. ‘Because he was a wonderful father.’ Verity is nodding now, and there is a determined, defensive look in her eyes as though she dares anyone to suggest otherwise. ‘I hadn’t ever met his daughters until a few weeks ago. We – at… at the hospital. I knew how much he cared about you.’ He looks at them and sees something like gratitude in Verity’s eyes, but it is almost hidden behind the weight of her grief. Emily buries her face further into her sister’s shoulder. ‘But that’s not how I know he was such a good father. I know because – because –’

He should have said this sooner. He should have told Douglas while he was alive. He should have _realised_.

He should never say it. He shouldn’t be admitting this _now_. It isn’t his place. It isn’t the _time_. Not in front of all these people, in front of his _actual_ children –

If not now, though – when?

He should have done it before, or never. To Douglas’s face, or never.

Not here. Not now. Not this late.

‘I know because he was – he wasn’t biologically related to me or anything, but –’ _oh God, this is not how he had planned on this speech going –_ ‘But he was a… that’s what he was to me. A father, I mean. He was… I –’ He struggles for a moment; his breaths become short and sharp and his vision is swimming with tears again, his throat is closing up. ‘God, he would have known just what to say here, he would – but I can’t. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’ He looks to Arthur, to Carolyn, to Verity and Emily – and to the casket.

‘You’ll be – we’ll – I’ll miss you, Douglas. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t –’

He isn’t quite sure how it happens, but the next thing he knows he's stumbling back to his seat and then Verity is standing up and her arms are around him and she’s crying into his shoulder (she’s taller than him; of course she is). And she’s speaking. What is she saying?

‘Thank you,’ she whispers brokenly. ‘Thank you, Martin. That was – he’d have loved it.’

‘He’d never have let me hear the end of it,’ Martin’s replies in a quiet, watery voice, and they both smile with quivering lips.

‘No,’ she says, pulling away slightly. ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’d have laughed you out of the building.’

‘God,’ Martin gasps again, struggling to steady his shaky breaths. He isn’t sure whether his throat or his chest hurts more, or if he’s laughing or sobbing, and he is barely aware that they are still standing in front of a church full of people waiting for the next part of the service. ‘God, what are we going to – what –?’

‘If it helps,’ Verity interrupts, in the resolute tones of one who is more than aware that it _won’t_ but who needs to say it anyway; knows it needs to be heard. ‘I think he felt the same. I mean, that you were like a son. He wouldn’t have said so, but it’s true. And you were right, he was – he was wonderful.’ Her smile is more like a grimace. ‘I mean, he was an arrogant sod –’ Martin’s bark of laughter is sharp and unexpected but real, and he immediately feels guilty. ‘And he was infuriating and embarrassing and sometimes I didn’t see him for weeks and – God, _I miss him_.’

Then they are clinging together again, as though they are each drowning and the other is the only life raft in a thousand miles. They are practically strangers but they understand each other in that moment, at least enough to find comfort in knowing they aren’t alone.

‘We should sit down.’ Martin says eventually, suddenly hyper-aware of the growing divide throughout the church between those uncomfortably averting their gaze and those who cannot look away.

‘We’re a mess,’ Verity replies, scraping the palm of her hand roughly across her cheek as she pulls away.

‘What are we going to do?’ Martin asks, only half joking.

Verity chokes on a laugh – or a sob, neither of them can tell the difference anymore – and shakes her head. She digs in her pocket as they re-take their seats. Martin is between her and Arthur, who smiles weakly at him but can’t seem to pull away from his mother long enough for the hug he obviously wants to bestow. Martin pats his shoulder in a show of false strength and real comfort. Carolyn nods with somewhat less than her usual terseness.

Verity hands Martin a piece of paper.

‘I never even told him I was applying,’ she says, barely audibly. ‘I wanted it to be a surprise. Or – not a disappointment, if I didn’t…’

‘He was never disappointed in you,’ says Martin quickly – quietly, because now someone else is talking and it seems disrespectful not to listen but he doesn’t want to break out of this bubble of understanding just yet. He excuses himself as not wanting to hurt Verity’s feelings by ignoring her. ‘I mean he didn’t really talk about you – his private life in general – very much, but –’

‘I know, but still, I just – I thought – I thought he’d have more time. A few more days.’ She pushes Martin’s still outstretched hand, holding the folded paper, towards him. ‘I thought he’d be able to see… But that’s my answer.’

Martin frowns in puzzlement and glances down. He sees the header of the official-looking letter and doesn’t need to read the rest. He feels a rising – something. Sympathetic disappointment? Pride? Camaraderie?

The letter is from the Oxford Aviation Academy.

‘That’s what we do,’ says Verity. She steels herself to sit up straight, wraps her arm once more around Emily, and faces the front again. ‘We fly.’

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I had a dream in which I was essentially Martin, and Douglas was diagnosed with a terminal illness. It ended just after he died. It was very vivid. I almost wrote it into a full story, especially as it kind of fitted into vague ideas I had for a third part to a (technically completed) other series. This is probably as close as I'll ever get... although I _have_ been writing character death increasingly often recently...


End file.
